What's in My Name?
by Mighty Mints
Summary: Something has been bugging John for a while now. Sherlock never knew Lestrade first name even after 3 years, yet John was... well "John" since day one.
1. Sherlock is Cryptic

_A/N Just a small thing I thought of. It just begged for me to write it... so I did! Kinda just a itty fluffie, but I do hope you enjoy anyway.  
_

* * *

It took almost an entire week for John to realize the implications of the incident. Once he did however, it haunted his mind; ghosting about the recesses, distracting him. He had already been reprehend by work and Sherlock because of how often he spaced out recently. In fact, Sherlock had almost lost the suspect yesterday due to John losing himself in thoughts. That was not a fun storm to shelter through afterwards to say the least. It was hard though. Every time Sherlock called him John, he could not help but think back to that evening.

Finally, John had enough. He couldn't figure it out himself. It wasn't going away on its own. The only thing left to do was ask the man who caused the problem in the first place. Closing out of the blank document and shutting the laptop, he looked to the curled figure on the couch. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock immediately spun around and spat, "Oh, what is it now?"

A different man (a man such as John Watson of two weeks ago) may have been deterred. John already begun to understand Sherlock's fluffed fur and feathers. Even so, it made John pause for a second longer trying to figure out the best way to broach the subject. He finally settled with an attack to the flank of the problem and slowly (hopefully) work the way to the root. "Did you really not know his name was Greg?"

Turning back away with what almost seemed like disappointment at such an uninteresting question, Sherlock said, "Unimportant."

"Unimportant? _Unimportant_? You do realize that we are talking about his name?"

"I knew his last name!" Sherlock retorted. "That was all that was necessary."

John gave out a disbelieving laugh. This is what he had been distracting him for days? "Alright. Alright then. Then why call me John? Is it just bloody easier to say every day?"

"Two completely different cases. You can hardly compare the two."

"Is it really that different? Greg's your friend isn't he?"

"No, John, I don't believe he is. In fact... ah." Sherlock righted himself on the couch with one swift move and moved into his thinking position. "Ah!" His eyes flickered about John which John registered as Sherlock deducing the unsaid words of the conversation. Let him. John leaned back and gave an open glare. Sherlock quirked his eyebrow but made no other move. "Yes," Sherlock began again, slowly. "Yes. Regardless of anything you may say, two very different cases."

John sucked in breath. He stared into Sherlock's eyes trying to unravel the mysteries of the man in front of him. Like always, he never quite could. That didn't stop John from trying for just a few moments longer. Eventually, he had to do what he always had to do; ask the obvious to everyone who was Sherlock. "Is it? Is it really?"

Sherlock smirked. "I don't think I need to repeat myself."

He didn't. It would just take a while for John's brain to catch up again.

* * *

A/N: Now now, Sherlove... Why is John so different eh?


	2. Sherlock is Dramatic Cryptic

_A/N: I was not exactly planning of writing more, but I ended up getting a lot more response about it than I thought I would. And, well, give me a few reviews and I'm ready to do almost anything._

* * *

It wasn't long until Sherlock's words began to haunt John much in the same way the use of names haunted him before. Luckily, it wasn't as distracting as before. It just came up during times like this when Sherlock stood next to Greg. They certainly had a closeness. Sherlock couldn't really say the two of them weren't friends in at least a loose sense. Sherlock definitely cared about Greg, and, really, that was a lot considering. Maybe Sherlock was just meaning that John was in a different situation than Greg was. After all, John was Sherlock's flat mate. It was hard not to have a special closeness when forced into close quarters with that person every day. Greg and Sherlock only saw each other in random burst (most of which were weeks apart).

There was something that felt off with that explanation though. John had a hard time placing it until he finally realized it. John was never Watson to Sherlock; not even in the moment they met. It had always been John and Sherlock; never Watson and Holmes. In fact, even John thought Watson and Holmes sounded wrong somehow. No, they were John and Sherlock.

"John?"

John realized he was staring into Sherlock's eyes. All thoughts suddenly jumbled about in his brain for a moment. Sherlock was looking at John almost expectantly. Had John missed something?

"So that's it then?"

Sherlock looked back at Greg with a huff. "Yes. You'll find remnants of the necklace under the third floorboard. Do be careful of the blood that will undeniable still be on it."

"Huh," Greg shook his head with disbelief. "That's sort of genius actually."

"No. You're just an idiot."

There was almost an undertone of anger in Sherlock's voice. John may have questioned it if Sherlock actually stayed. But no, as soon as those words were out of his mouth, Sherlock turned and left. John gave Greg a small smile that bordered a grimace as a silent "sorry" and then did what he always did.

John followed after Sherlock.

Jogging to catch up, John said, "Surprised you didn't gloat a bit more."

Sherlock slowed his steps minutely so that they both walked in sync. "I don't need affirmation from idiots."

"You always seem happy when I compliment you."

Sherlock sighed. "Two completely different cases."

There was that blasted statement again. "And," John began slowly, "may I ask why again?"

Sherlock stopped completely and just stared at John. "Oh god, can you really not see?"

"No. No, I guess not."

"You're special, John."

John leaned back and bounced on his heels. This felt like dangerous waters. "And, how special may I ask?"

The annoyance suddenly washed off Sherlock's face. "Oh, you can ask, but you already know the answer."

And then Sherlock was gone leaving John with only a flurry of his coat, a wink, and a reeling mind.

* * *

_A/N: I think next part should be the last bit. It should be up faster because I don't have my previous distraction... meaning all of the episodes of Supernatural to burn through. Oh god... I had a really, really hard time getting the voices right. Everything I wrote sounded like those little jerks and beaches rather than our Sherlock friends. _


	3. Sherlock is Dramatically Bored

_A/N: I gave up on two things in this chapter... my 500(ish) word count limit and trying to guess how much more I'm going to write of this story. At this moment in time, I'm thinking there will be at least 2 maybe 3 more chapters. That would make this at least 5 chapters. As I was originally just planned on making this a silly little oneshot, I'm really surprised at this turn of events, I totally blame you guys cause... wow... Why is this silly little thing getting so much attention? (Mhmmm reviews...) I'm not complaining though. This thing has made me finally feel like writing again! I took a long break, so it feels nice to get back in the saddle. Course, I wasn't writing fanfics before. _

_Works for me though!_

* * *

John hadn't gone back to the flat that night. Neither did he go back the next night. The third night though, the third night was when the twisting guilt in his stomach wouldn't leave right enough alone, and he headed off to 221B after his shift. He had to face Sherlock at some point. It wasn't so much facing Sherlock though. Sherlock wasn't what sacred John off. John was what scared John off. That would be dealt with later though. One battle at a time. Today's battle was getting back home.

He was tempted to stay in retreat one more day. However, there were those blasted text to think about. No, Sherlock didn't send him any text the first night or today. Yesterday though... Well, yesterday was a different story.

While the cab continued bumping down the street, John scrolled through the chain of texts again. They were all telling John to come back to Bakers Street. Most directly commanding it; others were more like indirect inquiries of when he was coming back. Of course, John had sent a few texts saying he that he was busy, but they didn't stop Sherlock from sending more texts back. Eventually, John gave up trying to reason. By the seems of it, Sherlock gave up too.

That was wrong though. For everyone else, it just seemed like the natural progression. (If you are ignored, you start to ignore that person as well.) This wasn't everyone though. This was Sherlock and Sherlock wouldn't give up with so little a fight. No, something felt off about the whole thing, and John had to see what was afoot. As much as he said that to himself though, it didn't help the nervousness. In fact, the nervousness grew as the distance between him and Sherlock slowly melted away. It only got worse once the cabbie finally pulled into the familiar street. It became almost crippling when his last option of retreat, the cab, finally left his side. By God! He was a solider he could handle a little crush... or what ever else it may be.

Steeling up his shoulders, he marched right to the door. He debated flinging it open in an act of defiance. That seemed childish though and he had no idea who he was defying anyway. Instead, he opened it as quietly as he could and slipped in. Without the layer of wooden protection, violin music immediately attacked his ears (attacked being the correct word in this situation because, my God, it was loud and harsh... angry). Sherlock was angry.

Pleasant.

John tried to move as silently up the stairs to the flat as he could. Sherlock probably couldn't hear any footfalls over the racket he was making, but this was Sherlock. Sherlock probably knew John was coming before John even stepped into the cab in the first place.

Taking a deep breath, John cracked open the door. With just one peek, John threw the door completely open. A mess would be an understatement, but John didn't care to think of a better word. Books strewn all over the floor, all the pillows seemed to take up a vigil on the kitchen table, knifes and forks jammed into the wall, and that is not even mentioning the various... _things_ that were in sad, mushy puddles by the doorway. John liked to pretend those... _things_ were not human at some point. Maybe they weren't; it was hard to tell. Were they blenderizer? Did they even _have_ a blender? Did he even want to know?

And this was only one week after the discussion they had about minimizing damage to their abode too!

John marched into the flat; nervousness completely covered up by anger."What the _bloody hell _happened here?"

Without looking up from his violin, Sherlock said, "Tea is you must."

"What? No, Sherlock. Jesus! What the hell is this?" John pointed at a giant smear of only God knows what right next to the door. By the fact there was glass littering the floor, it most likely used to be in a jar before it took flying lessons. With Sherlock though, that didn't really tell you much. At this point, anything could fit in a jar was in a jar and tucked away in some dark corner of the flat.

"Oh," Sherlock looked away from the window and around the ruined flat almost as if he only just noticed the disarray it was in. "The usual. Nothing to be concerned about. Now, tea, John."

"Not until you tell me what the bloody hell happened!"

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. He readjusted his violin. "Bored."

Sharp new melodies pierced the air. John had to shout to be heard. "What?"

The violin stopped completely as Sherlock spun to John. "Bored. Bored, bored, bored! You weren't entertaining me so I found something else to entertain me."

"Something... Sherlock! This isn't because you were bored. This looks... This looks like you went on a mad rampage!"

"Oh, I'm not mad. Am I mad? I almost do feel mad. Why should I be mad?"

"Listen, I just... I just need time okay?"

Confusion fluttered onto Sherlock's face for a moment though John failed to notice. "Time? Time for what exactly?"

"For I don't know. Accepting maybe?"

"Accepting?"

"Yes. Accepting."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Accepting what?"

"Feelings. Accepting feelings that... that..."

"Oh, just spit it out, John. Blathering about it won't do you any good."

"Fine. Okay. Feelings that I may have for you."

* * *

_A/N: *LE GASP* Now who expected that? Everyone. Haaahaha... I am just making this thing cheesier and cheesier as time goes on. Next chapter includes... the **Talk**. *dundundun* _

_BTW, I know it is not really clear (it'll be explained better next chapter) but Sherlock was bored! Sherlock went smash around the flat! John saw this as anger that he left (but it was totally just because Sherlock was bored and thus Sherlock is confused when John is talking about needing time away to think)! John confessed he has feelings (Sherlock is still confused)! And I am busy so off I go! I seriously hope there are no giant mistakes in here. I need to get a beta at some point... (Feel free to point out any mistakes BTW. I've noticed I've had terrible grammar lately.)  
_


	4. Sherlock is Wishing He was Bored

_A/N: Sorry this took so long. There was a bit of family drama happening. I did end up writing another little story for Sherlock that I posted. Just, you know, if you're interested.  
_

* * *

"John."

"Shut it."

"John."

"Just shut it!"

"John."

This time there was a certain sharpness that made John immediately quiet up.

Sherlock continued, "I think there may be a misunderstanding."

"Yes! Yes there is." John tried hard to keep his tone as calm as possible but failed. "I keep thinking you're coming onto me. Bloody wishful thinking."

"I am 'coming onto' you, as you put it."

"What?"

"I am coming onto you."

John thoughts suddenly grounded to a halt. He opened and closed his mouth a few times but nothing came out. John cleared his throat and tried again. This time he managed to squeeze out, "Oh."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh indeed."

"Oh. I think," John's thoughts started up again. This situation wasn't right. "Oh. Oh, God."

"Idiot," Sherlock said with a smile. "Now, I think tea is order don't you think?"

"I..." John gave the kitchen a panicked look. This wasn't... "I don't..."

"Oh for God's sake. I wasn't saying you were going to make it. In your state, you'd probably burn down the entire flat."

John continued staring into the kitchen. It was better than seeing Sherlock. "You never make tea."

"I make tea. I just don't see the point since you are so obsessed about making it yourself.

"Right. Right then. Okay. Tea. Tea is good."

Sherlock left his perch by the window and brushed past John. Realizing that he was just standing with no real purpose, John drifted off to his chair; falling into it. This wasn't happening. This wasn't supposed to happen. No, this wasn't happening. He just kept chanting this little exchange in his head until the warmth being pressed into his hands broke the chain.

"Tea."

John realized he was staring blankly at cup. "Yes. Tea."

Sherlock took his normal place at the chair opposite John's; hands in his "thinking" position.

"What now?"

"What?" John looked up from the watery depth of his tea cup. Sherlock was studying him; eying him almost expectantly.

"From my understanding on how these things work, now, things either proceed or are broken off entirely."

"Sherlock... Jesus. Are you telling me either to agree to shag you or get out? I _need _time. I," This was Sherlock. How to explain to Sherlock? "I have a slower mind than you. I've got a lot to sort through alright? I need time to work through everything."

"What is there to think about? Either it is a "I'm sexually interested it you" or a "I'm not sexually interested in you". Don't worry though. You can stay either way."

"No, Sherlock. There is a bit more to it than that. I..." John stopped. No, Sherlock wouldn't understand. Sherlock was much more fact based. Trying to explain feelings with no logical backing would just be hard and frustrating. "Why are you so impatient anyway?"

Sherlock looked annoyed at the sudden change of subject but he didn't comment. "Don't be an idiot. Don't think this isn't affecting me. I need closer otherwise I don't know what to do with all this information I have gathered about our relationship."

John didn't like the sound of that. "Do?"

"Delete or keep."

Didn't like the sound of that at all. "Oh."

"Don't you see?" Sherlock gave a wild hand gesture as if that alone would explain what exacting he was referring to. John continued to look confused and upset though so Sherlock continued, "I've been slowing down. These trivial emotions keep me from the important things. The real important things."

"So these feelings are trivial."

Sherlock didn't respond at first. He studied John's eyes as if searching for the answer. Or maybe, he was searching for the right way to phrase it. Eventually, Sherlock said, "Understand, they don't help me complete my work. But you should know," Sherlock broke off eye contacted and rose up. He began to move back to his window, back to his violin, "I can't seem to delete them."

John went back to staring at his tea. "Is that so?"

Sherlock didn't respond and the flat fell into silence that was only broken once Sherlock finally picked up his violin again. Its sad tune seemed to sap into everything.

...

"Are you quite done yet?"

John jumped at the sudden conversation; slamming his still full cup down into the sink unintentionally. Neither had said anything since that awful conversation, and that must have bordered on two hours ago. "No, Sherlock." John turned and flinched again under Sherlock's piercing stare. Quickly turning back to the sink, John practically shouted, "God. Do you have to keep staring at me like that?"

"Yes."

And with that, the violin playing started back up again. John hadn't even noticed when it stopped. Now that it was back though, John realized how quiet the flat had been. The tune was strained. Sherlock was obviously having difficulties with it. Sherlock never had difficulties with his playing. Nervous. Maybe a bit angry. Unhappy for sure. John smiled a little at all this; not because of what the implications were but because before meeting Sherlock, John would have missed all of those facts.

There was a squeal of sound that barely sounded like a violin anymore, and then everything was quiet. Sherlock stopped playing and just stood by his window looking a bit lost.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock spun to him. "Why you are so unsure about this?"

"I," John started out slowly. "I'm a religious man, Sherlock. Not the best of religious men, but still a religious man."

Sherlock's brows furrowed in confusion. "What does that got to do with anything?"

John couldn't help but smile a little. Sherlock was always so spectacularly ignorant at times. "There is a part of me that tells me that this," waving between the two of them, "that this is wrong."

"Not that nonsense," Sherlock scoffed. "You believe that?"

John cut the other off before Sherlock could say more (and he would have if he could have). "Don't, Sherlock. Not right now. You are lucky you know. If this was a different time, a time before when the bible was taken more literally, when I would have taken the bible more literally, I wouldn't even consider this. In fact, I might have even left through that door and never come back. Gone away. Away to war. Away to... to something."

"But," Sherlock paused after every word, "do you believe that?"

"I don't know what I believe. I don't know and that scares me. I know others think they know. They think they know what is right and what is wrong. That scares me."

"What? That they will talk?"

"Yes. Yes that they will talk, and they take it too far and someone will get hurt."

"You think more of them than us."

"No, but," John sighed. "I just need time."

* * *

_A/N: Is "shag" a England slang? I never heard it before I started to read Sherlock fics. I used it in this cause it either is the proper slang or I am just completely out of the loop. Either way, it works for this silly American._

_I know this wasn't the happiest of chapters. To make up for that though, I'll let you in on a little secret. Next chapter will practically just be happy, melt your inside, fluff._


	5. Sherlock is Wishing for More

_A/N: You want see some amazing Sherlock fanart? Yes. Yes you do... ohgodcas . tumblr post / 56624124240 / i-may-be-on-the-side-of-the-angels-but-dont (lol, I am just kidding about the amazing part. I drew it though so If you want to go off and look at it, I'd appreciate that. Just take out the spaces.)_

* * *

It was always good when Sherlock got a case. It distracted him and gave John some semblance of personal time. Not physically mind you. No, there was less time physically apart during cases. Mentally though, mentally Sherlock wasn't all in the same plane as everyone else. John barely had to be there for the most of the time. He practically _was_ just a replacement for that bloody skull (the one that kept mysteriously being thrown away). So this was good. Greg asking Sherlock to take a case was good.

Well, it would be good if only Sherlock took it.

"Come on, mate. Triple homicide! Just up your alley isn't it?"

"I told you I'm _busy_." Of course, anyone with eyes could see that wasn't the case. Sherlock was curled up on the couch as he was since the... well, since that day.

Greg grimaced. It was a particularly hard case by the seems of it. He walked over to the kitchen where John had taken up a residence in these past couple of days under the pretense of finally cleaning out the rubbish. He had yet to touch anything though. (Not that it really mattered since everyone of importance in this case knew the actually reasons.) Greg stood there a moment contemplating, staring at Sherlock, trying to make sense of the situation. It was not often that Sherlock could say no to serial killers. They were his favourite after all. Eventually, he whispered, "John, can you..." and tilted his head to the couch.

"Don't force John to do your dirty work Lestrade. It's rude."

"And what do_ you_ know about rude?" Greg shouted back. "Listen, John, can you do this or not?"

"I'm not sure how much help I can be."

"Just try okay."

John sighed. In all honesty, the both of them had been crammed in the flat too long. Both their sanities (if either had them to begin with) were strained. "Fine. Just give me time."

"Time?" Sherlock yelled. "Time? How long is time? Days? Weeks? Months?"

"You might want to," John gestured to the door.

Sherlock continued to yell, "Oh, maybe you meant time as in all of time!"

"Right then." Greg took a few steps to the door, but his eyes flicked from the two flat mates with confusion. "Did you two...?"

John nodded but continued pushing Greg to the exit. "Fight."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No. No, not right now." John added mentally, "Probably not ever."

"Yeah, well, good luck then."

"I don't want a case!" Sherlock shouted as John quickly finished guiding Greg out of the flat. "A case would only make -"

John closed the door on Lestrade and shouted back, "You will get your bloody answers soon."

"When?"

Sherlock sounded so desperate John practically could feel his insides twisting. ("Impossible. Insides can't physically twist with mere words" says the little voice in his head. A voice that sounded strangely like a certain consulting detective though that was wholly coincidental.) This was the last straw. Something had to be done. No more staling. "I think we need to talk."

"Oh, not now."

"Yes now. Right now. Right here. We are talking."

Panic momentarily flickered in Sherlock's eyes. John barely caught it before Sherlock flopped back down onto the couch.

The response was muffled by the pillows, but it was still an understandable, "Fine."

John waited until he was settled down in his chair before starting. He had a feeling this wasn't going to be the smoothest of talks. "How long?"

"Be more specific. My ability doesn't make me a mind reader though you may be idiotic enough to believe it some days."

"How long did, well, you know... How long have you had... feelings for me?"

"First case."

"I thought you said you were married to your work."

"I am."

John let out a clipped, nerve wreaked giggle at the complete ridiculousness of the situation. Here John was, talking to Sherlock about love. Sherlock. Love! "Sorry. So, um, is this an affair then?"

"No! No, you are an integral part of my work John. I knew it as soon as you shot that cabbie for me."

"Knew what exactly?"

Sherlock threw his hands up partly from dismay, partly from annoyance. "I'd be lost without my blogger. Completely lost. Useless. Should I go on?"

"No. That is quite enough. Thank you."

"Yes. _Thank you._" Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Um, I deserve that then." Sherlock smiled that particularly venomous smile of his. John couldn't help but cringe. "I have to ask why. Why did you not tell me that sooner?"

"I did. You just missed all the signs."

"I figured you as the type who would just say it all outright."

"What else were you expecting? You are perfectly happy to date those boring women of yours though you clearly aren't happy with them. Satisfied. Sexually maybe but not emotionally. No. They are much too boring, tedious. It is you're life though and I won't stop you if you want to ruin it. If you saw the signs and wanted to proceed, then things could go accordingly."

John ignored another one of Sherlock's venomous smiles. "No... No there is something else. You'd still say it right out if you really thought that. What's the real reason?"

Sherlock smile turned into a scowl. John didn't back down though. No, this was important.

"I was worried."

"Worried? What in the world would actually worry you?"

Sherlock's grimace deepened. "I was worried I would have to pay all the rent by myself. Don't think I do not realize living with a person who is attracted to you who you personally don't reciprocate those feelings for would be uncomfortable. You are not gay, John. You've said it many times. Though, I do find it highly questionable when considering how often you stare at me and lick your lips. It is one of the most common signs of attraction. You can't deny how often you stare at me with lust clouding your vision. It really must be why the entire world is so full of idiots. Morons. None of them can just see things that are not right in front of them, obvious. I personally can hold back my such urges. My body can piss off for all I care. I refuse to be so dull. My mind is the only thing that will run me."

"Then why bother even giving me clues you," John took a nervous swallow, "and I were, well, a possibility?"

"Oh. I don't know! Hope."

"Hope? Hope we could be?"

Sherlock slumped back down into the couch instead of answering. John didn't say a word. The flat fell into complete silence except the slight sound of breathes.

John finally broke the stillness that really hadn't lasted more than a few seconds. He shook his head slightly as if to get rid of previous thoughts. He stood up and moved toward the couch. "You know, you're right. I am an idiot."

"Oh god, is that the only thing you choice to hear from all of that?"

"No... No, I heard it all. But see, the problem with being an idiot, idiots can't fight themselves. They," John stopped in front of Sherlock and crouched down so they could look straight into each other's eyes. "They can't ignore urges."

John leaned in and gently pressed his lips unto Sherlock's. Just a touch of lips. That was all. At least, that was all that was planned. It opened to floodgates though. Something broke, and suddenly John was engulfed by Sherlock. Lips roughly moving against lips; fingers hungrily seeking skin; buttons being relieved of duty.

"Sherlock," John moaned. "Sherlock, wait. Sherlock."

Movement grinded to a sudden stop. Before John could really comprehend it, the warmth left the area and Sherlock was gone with it. Flurries of colours and swooshing of cloth and then Sherlock was gone. He stormed to the door then thought better of it and stalked back to John. He stopped short though and turned away again.

"Sherlock?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped as he paced about the flat. "Idiot. Moron. Why? Why? What was the purpose in such an action? Nothing. Totally idiotic!"

"Very mature. Thank you."

"Shut up."

"Listen, I just... I just need some time to think before, you know, that step."

"Listen to yourself, John! Time! It is always time. What time? How much time? When is this blasted time over with?"

"When it is."

"Now who is being immature. You may as well have said because. You are such a child!"

"Just sit down."

Sherlock glared.

"When you are ready. Please?"

"Fine. _Give me time."_

"Yes. Alright then." John decided not to comment on Sherlock's... Sherlock tone. It was partly earned after all.

...

Sherlock slipped a mug of tea into John's hands and then just stood there with an air of nervousness. The time it had taken to make the tea had calmed the both of them and now a distinct awkwardness had settled. John patted the area of the couch next to him. Sherlock glared at it (though it came off more as what a scared little child would give the doctors table). Instead, he pushed the pillow off the side of the couch and carefully positioned himself at the edge farthest from John. Grimacing at the obvious rejection, John moved so that their knees touched.

Sherlock tensed but didn't say anything.

John leaned closer so their shoulders brushed.

Still nothing.

"I went through it all you know," John started quietly. "Harry's... Our parents... Our parents didn't like Harry's... choice. She's my older sister and I saw what it did to her. What it has done to her. I hated it. I hated it a lot. I barely can see her anymore. I can't... I decided that I wasn't gay. And I'm not. I'm not gay. I just may not be completely straight either. I always ignored the thought. I didn't want to be like her. I didn't want to go through with what she had to go through."

"What they say still bothers you." Sherlock actually sounded more interested than dismissive.

"Yes. Too much so. They said it was a sin. I can't believe it honestly. I just can't. But I still feel it. It is still there. All of it. All of what they said. It all just stuck. I can't get rid of any of it. And I can't force it away. Every time I think about... us. Every time, I just hear what they preached. I hear it and think, "What if they're right?" I get so worried they might be you know?"

"They're idiots."

"They might be. But you know, Mycroft might be too. You still care for him."

"No, I don't"

"Liar."

"He's not an idiot."

"You can't deny that you love him though."

"Oh, shut up."

"You're such a child sometimes. You know that right?" John didn't fight the fondness in his voice though. "Can you really not admit you like your own brother?"

"Can you really not say you are interested in me?"

John opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. He took a large gulp of tea. Piping hot still and terrible. Really bloody terrible. John hastily swallowed, gagging a bit. "Remind me never to let you make tea again."

"Dodging the question. Typical of one trying to hide something."

"No. You're tea is just really bloody terrible." John placed the cup on the table, away from him and his taste buds.

"Hardly seems as if you hold onto your thoughts sufficiently if a mere cup of tea can make you forget them."

"Probably not honestly," John said with a chuckle.

Then they were both laughing together. It was the first case all over again.

"We shouldn't laugh."

"Not proper to laugh in your own home?"

"No, you bloody idiot." John leaned into Sherlock for a moment to press their shoulders together. "There's nothing funny about this."

Sherlock returned the gesture. "I wouldn't say that exactly. There is something a bit funny about all of this."

John let out one last loud giggle. "Maybe. Maybe just a bit."

"Just a bit," Sherlock agreed. He turned to meet John's eyes. It had become a habit honestly. When looking at each other's eyes, things always seemed to click. Eyes said so much much quicker than words after all. As long as you knew how to read them that is. Just like now. John only hoped he was reading Sherlock right.

John gently pressed his lips onto Sherlock's again. This time Sherlock didn't grab at John as he did before. This time it was just a press of lips.

They broke apart but neither actually moved away. They let their breathes mingle.

"Why am I special?"

"You know."

"Yes. I do believe I do."

"You still want me to say it." Sherlock titled his head slightly and moved a fraction forward. "You aren't dull."

"Idiot." John closed the distance. After all, it was practically a compliment coming from Sherlock.

* * *

_A/N: Wow. I think I'm giving up trying to guess where this is going, This thing became totally different than what I had planned on it being. Mostly because the first 2/3 were pretty much not supposed to happen while the end part ended up being cut into another chapter. This chapter was bordering on 5,000 words before editing (which generally increases the word count by a lot for me) and I felt a bit stupid at the thought of posting it considering how short my other chapters were. So, I just cut it apart. We'll just have to see what happens to that thing after I edit it..._


End file.
